Quotes About Graves

Maybe Jesus was right when he said that the meek shall inherit the earth—but they inherit very small plots, about six feet by three.

On the far side of the human graves. Pink wings in the lowering moon as the earth slipped 'round her silver light. They reached our wall. Our lines were strung. We held our land. What's said is done.

Hatred made me rise. Hatred forced one foot in front of the other as I staggered away from the graves. With each step, blood dripped from my ragged fingers, dotting a trail across the vast black gravestone. A tether from me to Jack.

Kreb vergisst nie die Friedhöfe, wo er beerdigt worden ist.

families, revealing insights that cannot be found in published histories. Brown doggedly cross-checks information about each grave in emigrant journals, land records, and nineteenth-century newspapers. A lifetime of searching for graves along the Oregon and California trails has also allowed him

In the last, lorn fight 'gainst the fall of long night, the mountains stand guard, and the dead shall be ward, for the grave is no bar to my call.

We are dead men, Lews Therin murmured. Dead men should be quiet in their graves, but they never are.

Don't you know ANY good husbands, Miss Bryant? Oh, yes, lots of them—over yonder, said Miss Cornelia, waving her hand through the open window towards the little graveyard of the church across the harbor.

Don't you know ANY good husbands, Miss Bryant? Oh, yes, lots of them—over yonder, said Miss Cornelia, waving her hand through the open window towards the little graveyard of the church across the harbor. But living—going about in the flesh? persisted Anne. Oh, there's a few, just to show that with God all things are possible, acknowledged Miss Cornelia reluctantly.

Twenty years ago when he was caught pasturing his cow in the Lowbridge graveyard. I always think of it when he is praying in meeting.

Graves are for the living, not the dead.

Not the dreams where we are hunted by the monsters, but the dreams where we are the monsters. We raise bloody hands to the sky and scream, not from fear, but from joy. The pure joy of slaughter. The cathartic moment when we plunge our hands into the hot blood of our enemies and there is no civilized thought to stop us from dancing on their graves.

Vampires are made by other vampires. Zombies are raised from the grave by an animator or voodoo priest. Ghouls, as far as we know, just crawl out of their graves on their own.

And there they ring the walls, the young, the lithe. The handsome hold the graves they won in Troy; the enemy earth rides over those who conquered.

It is difficult to want to tell a grave that it is not immortal. It's so obvious at that point.

We are buried when we're born. The world is a place of graves occupied and graves potential. Life is what happens while we wait for our appointment with the mortician.

Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain. It falls on our heads and on the heads of the dead up in the line, on the body of the little recruit with the wound that is so much too big for his hip; it falls on Kemmerich's grave; it falls in our hearts.

We sit as if in our graves waiting only to be closed in.

Ainult lilled. Need katavad kõike. Isegi haudu.

Old Delhi does not change. It only decays. My students tell me it is a great cemetery, every house a tomb. Nothing but sleeping graves. Now [i]New[/i] Delhi, they say is different. That is where things happen. The way they describe it, it sounds like a nest of fleas. So much happens there, it must be a jumping place. I never go. Baba never goes. And here, here nothing happens at all.

Old Delhi does not change. It only decays. My students tell me it is a great cemetery, every house a tomb. Nothing but sleeping graves. Now New Delhi, they say is different. That is where things happen. The way they describe it, it sounds like a nest of fleas. So much happens there, it must be a jumping place. I never go. Baba never goes. And here, here nothing happens at all.

People have asked me whether I have a science background. No, but I have a great curiosity about the kinds of things we do on 'Discover.'

The Cherokees had 1,200 miles to go before they reached eastern Oklahoma, the end of the trek they would forever be remembered as the Trail of Tears. As their homeland disappeared behind them, the cold autumn rains continued to fall, bringing disease and death. Four thousand shallow graves marked the trail. Marauding parties of white men appeared, seized Cherokee horses in payment for imaginary debts, and rode off. The Indians pressed on, the sullen troopers riding beside them. They

Forget, forget nothing, don't forget the sweetness, don't forget the severity. If indifference and unkindness take hold of your being, stir your memory and think of all the beautiful, all the burdensome things. Remember there is life and there is death, remember there are moments of bliss and there are graves. Do not be forgetful, but instead remember this.